While it's tough to live your life hoping for a miracle, it's even tougher, I think, to live eliminating hope.
Possibly I'm just not wired that way. So much of what I do every day (I'm talking about my career) hinges on having enormous buckets of hope.
I spent an hour in my therapist's office yesterday crying about how I needed to try to give up any hope that I would get the outcome I need. Because three years of actively trying to conceive and having nothing to show for it but heartbreak needed to end. Because I need to protect Niblet from getting her hopes raised. Because I am drained and scared of another horrible gutting outcome and isn't self-preservation smarter in the long-run?
But I sit here realizing that I am also being dishonest. The tears are real, but they don't feel like me. Debbie downer that I can be, I am generally one of the more hopeful people you'll come across. I have hopes and dreams for peace for humanity that many people view as pollyana-ish and trite.
Maybe I can take Niblet out of this equation. Maybe I can keep plugging away at my supplements and vitamins, and yoga videos and wellness and exercise and acupuncture. Maybe I can still ensure that my husband and I are timing everything just right. Maybe - just maybe - I can deliver a miracle. With a little hope.